


At The End of All Things

by infensi_floralibus



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battle of Bosworth, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infensi_floralibus/pseuds/infensi_floralibus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A one-shot of the last moments of the Cousins War...</p>
            </blockquote>





	At The End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I've written anything and I'm not sure I quite achieved the tone I was going for, but do let me know what you think.
> 
> Whilst I enjoy Philippa Gregory's writing I don't agree with all her historical interpretations, therefore I have left my piece deliberately vague so you can choose your favourite interpretation of these fascinating characters.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

The view from the ridge was one of Dante’s inferno; Hell was truly on earth. Men cut down their neighbours in the mad crush as blood filled their mouths and dripped into their eyes. The air was thick with the clash of steel and the roar of cannon overhead; the screams of the dying were far outweighed by the cries of the living.  


From his vantage point at the top of the hill, Richard looked down on the seething, broiling mass of men. This was far from his first battle; he was no longer touched by the sight of the wounded and the weary. Instead there was a new weight in his gut, different from the familiar flicker of fear that had always previously accompanied him in combat. The thrill for life, the call for survival felt...altered. There was no one to answer to, no one whose life depended on his victory. There was only the hollow crown which weighed on his temple, mocking his sombreness.  


Richard breathed deeply, feeling the breastplate of his armour shifting with the slow expansion of his lungs before settling again on the exhale. Now was the time for clear thought, rationality and decisiveness but today of all days he struggled to grasp cold reason, his usual ally and tool was like a silver fish, darting and eluding him at the fringe of his thoughts.  


He mumbled a low curse and, gathering his reins in one hand, turned to his banner man Sir Percival Thirwel, “Why do Northumberland’s men not move? Did he not receive my signal to advance?”  


“Your Grace, it is hard to say, but his position is a difficult one. His men would have to move around our troops flank or simply advance through them-”  


“Or perhaps he is yet another traitor”. Richard interrupted with a voice as sharp as his long sword. His eyes were busy scanning the field below, searching for any tactical flaws in the usurper Henry Tudor’s attack. “There. Tudor exposes himself!” His gloved hand pointed to the distant figure of a mounted Henry Tudor riding towards the Stanleys.  


“Your majesty?” Sir Percival asked, ready for whatever orders he was given.  


“We end this now. I’ll kill him and end the Lancastrian line forever, as my brother Ned should have.” He signalled for his squire to hand him his helmet. “Summon my household men, we need to be swift and light. We shall ride around the melee and cut off Tudor before he has a chance to join with the Stanleys.”  


The men around him hurried to do his bidding, readying for the charge, but Sir Percival drew his mount closer and spoke quietly into the King’s ear.  


“Your majesty, I beg of you, let someone else lead the charge. This places your precious life in great danger.”  


“Do you doubt me, Percival?”  


“Of course not Your Grace. I merely meant-” Thirwel replied flustered.  


“I am not Henry Tudor, I still place some value on my honour. I shall not hide behind my rearguard like a child behind his mother’s skirts. He may hide but I will force him to face me in battle. We shall settle this man to man. Let God decide who is worthy of the crown.” Thirwel drew back, clearly unhappy but not daring to question his King a second time.  


As Richard prepared to enter the field, he wondered at how little fear he felt. Rather, what struck him most, was how alone he was. His brothers were absent from his side. Previous battles had always been preceded by much back slapping and boasting of future accomplishments. He was surprised to realise that he would even be grateful for George’s presence today. The King contained a shiver, not allowing himself to linger too long on those thoughts. There would be time later after he had defended the legacy of his father and brothers. They were all beyond his reach now, but it was his duty to defend the crown for York.  


He glanced behind to ensure that his knights were around him, ready for battle in their gleaming armour, colours unfurled in the wind. He nodded to Sir Percival who raised his banner aloft, allowing the sign of the white boar to catch the gusting air, before spurring his horse down the line of assembled knights shouting his call to battle,  


“TO ME! A YORK!!”  


He felt rather than saw the mass of mounts, men and metal follow him down the ridge, the sound of their drumming hooves sending reverberations through the ground. Richard gritted his teeth as the wind made his eyes water and gripped his knees tightly around the mighty horse below him, just as Edward had taught him to do as a boy. Galloping past the main body of the battle Richard’s men found themselves in the calm at the eye of the storm. They passed much mutilation and bloodshed, a York foot soldier fell beneath their hooves after a Lancastrian mace smashed away half his jaw, but they were untouched moving as swiftly as they were.  


Richard used this small amount of time to ground himself, concentrating on the roll of the horse beneath him, on maintaining his balance as he was forced to leap the bodies of the fallen. There was nothing but this. It was do or die. He knew he must face Henry Tudor man to man and let God decide who was fit to rule England. He was gambling with the highest prize, the crown, and yet what did he stand to lose? He could not see beyond this battlefield, what was there after here? He could win today but it would not secure his throne. There would be others, more who had yet to learn that to be king was a pitiless position.  


As he reached Henry’s men he reached for his sword, uttering a silent prayer that his arm would not fail him now. The first blow was always a shock. The sensation of bone breaking and splitting beneath his sword was one Richard somehow always forgot during peace. He cut his way through Henry’s men, determined to reach their master before they closed ranks. He heard the smash of men and horses colliding as his men joined the fray but pushed on recklessly, bearing down on the unfortunate souls in his path.  
Henry’s standard bearer, Sir William Brandon, was one of the men foolish enough to place himself between Richard and his quarry. The York King rained blows down upon him, relishing the freedom of the battlefield, where all instincts and impulses were set free. He soon ended his opponent’s life with a well aimed blow to the throat, severing the artery and dowsing himself in hot, gushing blood. He spit the salty liquid from his mouth and beat on. There was a momentary clearing in the fighting and for a second Richard saw him. The would-be King. He was barely more than a swords length away, but his bodyguards were well trained and Richard screamed with frustration as he saw them surrounding their master, keeping him from him. A coward. A low born, welsh coward!  


“FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN!” Richard roared. Whatever his sins he had never fled from a fight, always facing the situation with clarity and a sense of dignity.  


John Cheyne, his brother Edwards former standard bearer swam into view. Richard took particular pleasure in unseating him from his horse with a well timed blow to the head. They had fought as brothers once, and now here he was fighting for the usurper!  


Richard continued battling on, lost to his instincts, not thinking merely acting, until he heard a shift in the melee around him. It was the kind of sound made when a great knight fell, at the moment when the battle turned on a coin; either side about to grasp victory. Richard’s wintry blue eyes searched the chaos for its cause and settled with rising horror on the sight of Stanley’s men joining the fray... on the side of the usurper. He roared with anger! Such treachery! Such dishonour! He could only watch as Sir Percival’s legs were cut from beneath him and he was hacked to death, holding the King’s banner high until his body sagged to the ground. With barely a moment to murmur a prayer for his friend’s soul, Richard kicked his horse on in pursuit of Henry; it was the only way to win the battle. However the brawling mass of men had churned the ground into a cesspit and his horse staggered beneath him. After valiantly struggling on the beast was brought to its knees as Richard and his men were forced back onto increasingly marshy ground. With no other choice Richard dismounted, cutting himself free from the saddle of the thrashing creature. His breath was painful as his lungs heaved beneath his increasingly heavy armour and his arm ached from overuse.  


A Lancastrian foot soldier attempted to bury his hatchet in Richard’s skull but the King was faster and swung his sword deep into his attackers belly before kicking him away and freeing his sword. Around him the number of Yorkist men was thinning and he sensed that time and opportunities were slipping from his grasp.  


“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” a voice bellowed from behind him, it was one of his household knights, his beard filled with gore and his mouth missing a front tooth. “You must flee the field! The battle is lost!”  


“I am no coward!” Richard roared back, “I will not run.”  


“You may take my horse, please your Grace!” Richard grasped the offered forearm and looked the knight deep in the eye.  


“Your loyalty does you honour my friend, but I shall leave this battle with victory or on my back. Now bring me the head of that blasted pretender!” The bloody knight paused, clearly wishing to urge his King to flee again, but he merely nodded and pushed on into the fray, his sword arm aloft.  


Richard slew all that came before him. His anger and betrayal fuelling his sword as it opened bellies and split sternums. “Treason! Treason!” he cried as members of Stanley’s men surged past.  


Such was his fury that he did not see the halberd on its first downward swing. It knocked his helmet and circlet from his head, and brought him to his knees with the sheer force of the impact.  


Richard’s head swam and he closed his eyes in a futile attempt to stop the world from tilting so violently. He wanted to wretch so painful was the blow...and yet he lived.  
Time had slowed down, the soldiers around him moved like dancers at a masque. He could observe each flowing movement before it happened, identify exactly where the blow would land before it was struck. He marvelled at how blood would slowly rise from the fresh wound like a crimson wave before subsiding and soaking into the thirsty ground. He realised for the first time that he was on his hands and knees, blood welled into the pockets his fingers had dug in the mud. He breathed deep but found no relief as stars glowed, ebbed and died at the edges of his vision. Was this what it felt like to die? He wondered. If so it was not so bad. All those whose deaths he had organised or ordered... had they been like this? Had their lives slowed right down before their fading eyes? Had they also seen their wives standing amongst the smoke?...  


_Anne_  


She stood like a guardian angel before him. Just out of reach. Her skirts were untouched by the mud and shit and blood. She seemed to him to stand apart from all others. She smiled that small smile of hers, the one he had once delighted in bringing to her face. How long since he had seen it now?  


_Anne_  


Her lips parted as her smile increased and he saw that she was not alone. Beneath her arm was their sweet boy and Richard smiled in spite of himself at the sight of their lad who looked far bonnier than he could ever remember. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright. An arm was thrown around his mother’s waist and Richard noticed that Anne too was in far better health than she had been for quite some time. Her bones were not so pronounced and her hair had regained its lustre.  


_My Love_  


Her familiar hand reached out to him, still bearing her wedding ring, lily white but no longer birdlike. Richard attempted to raise his hand in return but found it heavy and smothered in mud and blood. He couldn’t quite believe she was here. It could only mean she had forgiven him. _But how?..._  


He didn’t feel the second blow of the halberd as it split his skull, nor the following blows that cracked his head even wider open. The last Yorkist kings body fell, an arm outstretched before it, fingers twitching in the mire.  


***  
After the battle his body was dumped, naked, in a cart for all those who had ever ill wished him to maltreat. His crown was placed on the head of the man responsible for his death and his niece married to the usurper.  


_But these were the concerns of mortal men. Far above, in a sky as clear as that at the dawning of the world, the sun was once again in splendour and two hearts once more became one._


End file.
